Matt Paxton Goes Inside 'The Secret Life of Hoarders'

Timothy wasn't there to tell us anything about himself, but
we were able to learn a little bit of his story. His parents
shared with us that Timothy had killed himself, which made
me wonder whether he was one unhappy guy who'd collected
all this stuff in an attempt to find some joy in life, or whether
his collection had finally overwhelmed him and driven him to
despair. Timothy was a mystery that I wanted to unravel.
On the day of the estate sale, I noticed an attractive
woman and a companion walking through the house. She
kept pointing things out to her friend and explaining what
they were. I realized that she knew her way around the
rooms, and she recognized everything there. I pulled her
aside and asked if she was familiar with the house. She said
that she was, and in fact had lived there off and on with
Timothy.

It turned out that she and Timothy had been in love for
years, but Timothy had never introduced her to his parents
because he feared their judgment about being in an interracial
relationship. Instead, he guarded a secret life that hid
not only his relationship but his ever-expanding collection
of stuff. While I didn't press Timothy's friends or parents for
much information, the story I pieced together was moving. I
saw a grown man, desperately unhappy because he was
keeping his life a secret, who had turned to collecting to
comfort himself. Then things got out of hand.

That struck a chord with me because I knew a little bit
about unhappiness, tragedy, and addiction. I had spent a
few months working for a large casino in Lake Tahoe in
1999, and while I was there I fell in love with gambling. It
became a full-blown addiction, so bad that at one point I
found myself $40,000 in debt. When I couldn't pay my
bookie, he broke my nose and I had to leave town.
I eventually paid back my debt and I haven't gambled
since, but I know what it feels like to be lonely and miserable,
and to turn to something that feels good at the moment
but is ultimately destructive. Timothy's situation felt more
than a little familiar to me and I found myself wishing I
could have met the guy and talked with him about it.
With the estate sale completed and after a final cleanup of
what was left behind, I started looking for another messy
house to clean.

The second job was referred to me by a social worker in
a nearby county. She had a case in which a woman in her
mid-forties, Aimee, was living in a terrible state of squalor.
She was all but confined to her bed, where she slept, ate, and
went to the bathroom by leaning off the side of the mattress.
The place had been officially condemned by the county, and
since there was some funding to clean it up, the social
worker, who had seen a copy of my flyer that said no case
was too extreme, called us in. She did give us fair warning
that it would really test the limits of our claim. And she was
right: The whole place stank from rotting food, urine, and
feces. During our first visit to Aimee's house, the social
worker gave us the background on this case—and it was the
first time I heard the word "hoarder."

I went home and started researching hoarding. The disorder
was fascinating because I could relate to a lot of the feelings
and experiences that a hoarder goes through. I knew I
could really help these people in need.